Prison
by ProfessorElk
Summary: Set between Seasons 3 and 4: His eyes began to droop close, but he jerked himself to wakefulness when he realized what his body was trying to do. There was no time for sleep. He was running out of time to live.
1. Chapter 1

**Prison**

By ProfessorElk

_Disclaimer_: I do not own any of the following characters, nor have I made a profit from this story.

_Summary_: His eyes began to droop close, but he jerked himself to wakefulness when he realized what his body was trying to do. There was no time for sleep. He was running out of time to live.

_Spoilers_: Set between Seasons 3 and 4 while Gibbs is retired and living in Mexico and Tony is the team leader.

* * *

Chapter 1

He awoke with a start to complete darkness. Despite not being able to see, he felt the pressure of being boxed in, of being in a space too small and too crowded for his size. Nostrils flaring with trepidation, he inhaled and noted that the air was putrid, stale, and almost metallic. It was a strange, but familiar, combination on the senses and he was instantly transported back to his teenage years, the football team towering over him, grinning wildly with nothing but malice in their eyes, catcalling to one another as they manhandled him into the deserted hallway. Laughing cruelly at his fear and desperate pleas for help, for mercy, they gave him a hard push into the little confined space of an empty locker, slamming the door on his face as he begged them not to do what they were doing, to not leave him. He could still hear the audible click of the padlock slipping into place, effectively locking him in as the jovial sounds of his tormentors faded into nothingness as they left for the day. He could remember the claustrophobia, the fear of not being found, and the shame of being overpowered, feelings that used to plague him for the hours that he was trapped, until Henry the night janitor heard his cries for help as he was washing the hallway floor and used the master keys hung around his waist to let the boy out of his prison.

He mentally chastised himself. He was no longer that boy, small and pudgy, and a victim of upperclassmen bullies. He was a man now, a federal agent with the Naval Criminal Investigative Service, more than capable of handling himself. As his past melded into his present, he stretched out and realized his prison was bigger than the lockers of his past, but it was indeed made of metal. The movement, though beneficial in helping him figure out where he was, sent a jolt of pure agony beginning in his middle and fanning out until his whole body felt as if it were on fire. His mind buzzed to nothingness, unable to focus on anything except the torture in his abdomen. Gradually, the pain began to ebb to a dull, but still painful ache, and his mind cleared enough to know not to move again.

Instead, he focused on his senses, noting the scratchiness of a material, carpet perhaps, pressed against his cheek. Inhaling through his noise, he noticed a scent that he had not identified before: the manufactured smell of a car. Realization hit him. He was trapped in the trunk of a car.

Moving his hands carefully to avoid igniting his wounded abdomen, he reached out trying to feel the trunk lid. His arms did not make it far, due to the burning pain the movement caused and the fact that it seemed his hands were bound. They felt sticky when he tried to separate his hands, but the material that seemed like duct tape held firm.

Mind desperately searching for a plan, he tried to reach for the cell phone he hoped was there, which he usually kept in the back pocket of his pants, but with the fetal position he was in to fit inside the trunk and his hands bound in front of him, reaching his phone was not an option.

Exhausted from his futile squirming, he slumped onto the floor of the trunk, head buzzing and feeling leaded, ears ringing. His thoughts drifted to nothingness.

He jolted awake, disturbed that he seemed to have lost time but unable to confirm it with the lack of a watch or clock. The pain in his stomach reminding him of his situation, he shifted his legs, surprised that they were free and unbound. A plan came to mind, and bracing himself for the expected pain, kicked out with all his might against the metal of the car trunk lid, hoping, praying, that it would give way, or at the very least alert someone to his plight. Pain erupted from his belly wound, sending licks of fire rippling from his center, burning so hot it almost froze his senses. The duct tape securing his mouth and ensuring his silence was unneeded. He was in too much agony to make a sound.

Coldness was the first thing he realized when he regained consciousness. Confused, he squirmed, groping for his blanket only to be reminded painfully that he was not home and in bed but instead still alone and hurt in a car trunk. Frame shaking with tremors in an attempt to get warm, his brow furrowed. It was the middle of June, and the weather had been the typical warm and sticky. Coupled with being inside essentially a box made of metal under the Washington, D.C. sun, he should be sweltering, not shivering. _Shock,_ his mind supplied.

A surge of adrenaline spurred him to action. He refused to do nothing and wait for death. He had too much to live for and the team had already been through too much. They had already lost Gibbs. He would be damned if he made his team, his family, lose him too.

Wracking his brain for a new idea of how to free himself, trying to reach his cell phone still seemed to be the best idea. The trunk was too small to maneuver his body and shake his phone free. Plan quickly formulating, he stretched his bound hands up to his mouth, fingers picking at the edges of the duct tape securing his lips shut. His thumb scraped the corner of his mouth in a painful rhythm, quickly making it raw and bloody, but he continued on. Centimeter by centimeter, he was able to peel the tape away from his mouth, breath hitching as tender hairs were plucked from his upper lip and chin. At last his mouth was free and he transferred the piece of tape from his finger to the carpeting of the trunk. Drawing in a deep breath through his mouth, he took a moment to rest, minutely concerned that taking in breaths were becoming increasingly difficult. A drip of sweat ran across his forehead as he continued sucking in air greedily. His eyes began to droop close, but he jerked himself to wakefulness when he realized what his body was trying to do. There was no time for sleep. He was running out of time to live.

The second part of his plan required more bodily movement, which flared up the distress in his abdomen. Ignoring it as best he could, he brought up his bound wrists to his mouth and began to rotate them around his lips, that tender skin feeling the duct tape that secured him. Pausing when he finally found the spot where the tape was cut and fastened to the duct tape beneath it, he drew his lips back and tried to pull up a corner of the cut tape with his teeth. A horrible taste assaulted his mouth when the tape's glue hit his tongue, but he kept going, kept trying.

Gradually, he could no longer lift his head to his wrists, the strain too much on his neck, and his hands shook violently with the effort to stay still. Slumping down to the carpet of the trunk, he allowed himself to rest, vowing that he would continue in a moment.

Muddled sounds drew him into consciousness, though he had no idea what they were. Growing in volume, he tried to focus on them, but his head felt heavy and coherent thoughts left him. He jumped when the noise came from directly above him, a scratching sound of metal on metal, and his brows furrowed, pondering what was happening. With an audible clunk, the sound stopped, and he began to drift, until a horrible screeching immediately brought him back. Retinas instantly burning from the intense light searing through his closed lids caused him to moan weakly.

The muddled noise sounded different now, more gentle and soft, and he clung to it, trying to figure out what was occurring. Something warm and soft cupped his cheek before trailing down to his neck and resting there for a moment. The noise gradually morphed into words, a familiar voice to match the growingly familiar touch.

"Tim, buddy, can you hear me?"

So close to recognition, but the final piece that would explain it all eluded him.

The voice lost its gentleness and dramatically increased in volume. "Ziva, secure the perimeter. Lee, call a bus. Tell them we have an agent down and in need of immediate medical assistance."

New voices, indiscernible, answered and then it was quiet again, though the touch did not leave his neck.

"Come on Tim. Open your eyes, kid. Let me know you can hear me."

Possessing a strength he did not know he still had, his eyes slit open, blearily squinting against the bright glare of the light. He was blinded, though the voice must have seen his slight movement.

"That's it Tim. We've got you, okay? We found you. Help's coming. Just hold on, kid. Hold on."

Glazed eyes trailed to the direction of the voice, blinking laboriously several times before the form morphed into the visage of a person. He knew that face. Had seen it crinkle in an easy smile, wrinkle in disdain, and crumble in sorrow for the past two years.

"Tony," his voice rasped, barely above a whisper, but it was enough.

"Hey, man," Tony answered, smiling tightly at him and hand moving from his neck back to cup his cheek. "Where are you hurt, Tim?"

His eyes blinked heavily, glazing over and losing focus of Tony. Persistent shaking roused him, and his eyes traveled back to Tony's face, which was almost nose to nose with his.

"Stay with me Tim. Are you hurt anywhere else besides your stomach?"

He took a moment to take mental inventory. Lips parting, it took several times to form the simple word. "No."

Tony smiled in reassurance. "That's good, buddy. That's good. One hole in the probie is easy enough to fix."

He could only blink in confusion.

"I've got to stop the bleeding, okay Tim?" Tony asked without his usual joviality. "You've lost a lot blood, buddy, and we need to keep what's left inside of you, okay?"

His eyes slipped shut, too tired to answer. The hand returned to its position on his neck. _Checking my pulse_.

"Good idea, kid. You rest. I've got this. Alright DiNozzo, what do we have. Um, a designer tie, a NCIS tactical jacket, and looks like a piece of duct tape. Okay. Duct tape is good. That'll ah, um, that'll seal the wound after I pack it with the tie. That'll work. That's a good plan, right Tim?"

He was beyond being able to answer.

"Sorry kid, but this is gonna hurt."

Cool air hit the skin of his stomach, causing him to tremble ever harder than before. Without warning, heavy and firm weight pressed down on his injured abdomen. Fire consumed his middle, boiling him from the inside out, burning his stomach and causing him unfathomable pain. Too weak to buck the pressure of Tony's hands off of his body, he could only emit a pain-filled albeit feeble moan.

Eyes rolling to the back of his head, Tony's calls of, "Lee, where's the damn bus?" were the last thing he heard as consciousness left him.

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_**a/n: Thank you so much for taking the time to read this. Hope you all enjoyed it! Chapter 2, the epilogue, will be added soon.**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Prison**

By ProfessorElk

_Disclaimer_: I do not own any of the following characters, nor have I made a profit from this story.

_Summary_: His eyes began to droop close, but he jerked himself to wakefulness when he realized what his body was trying to do. There was no time for sleep. He was running out of time to live.

_Spoilers_: Set between Seasons 3 and 4 while Gibbs is retired and living in Mexico and Tony is the team leader.

* * *

Chapter 2

Beeping seeped into his consciousness, and he groaned. It was morning already and he still felt exhausted and as if he could sleep for many more hours.

"Easy, Tim. You with me, buddy?"

The voice, although familiar, startled him. Cracking his eyes open to mere slits, a face swam into his blurred vision.

"Hey there, kid. It's good to have you back."

His brow crinkled as his eyes slid shut. "Wha…what…are…you…doin…here?" he rasped, voice strained and weak, which confused him even more.

The voice sighed dejectedly. "I just wanted to check on you, Tim. I get it, man. You don't want to see me. Rest up and don't worry about work. I'll take care of it."

Before he could even comprehend what was being said, the voice was patting his blanketed knee and making its way out the door. "Wha…what?" He paused for a moment, his mind clearing enough to recognize who was speaking to him, and opened his eyes. "To…Tony?"

His team leader stopped in the doorframe and turned around. "Yeah, Tim, it's me." A curious expression crossed his face. "Do you know where you are?"

He thought about it for a moment. "Home?"

Tony came back over to his bed and pulled up a chair on wheels. His brow furrowed further. He _knew_ he did not have a chair like that. Sitting down so that he was at eye level, Tony wore a serious, but gentle, expression. "No Tim, you're not at home. You're in the hospital."

His brows shot up. "Hos…pit…al?"

Tony smiled softly, placing his hand back on the blanketed knee. "Yeah, buddy. You're in the hospital. You've been in and out for a few days now. Do you remember what happened?"

His eyes darted left and right, struggling to conjure up memories, any memory. His panicked eyes lifted up to his friend. He did not remember a thing.

Seeing the expression and hearing the more rapid beeping of the heart rate monitor, Tony smiled reassuringly and patted his knee. "Easy Tim, it's okay. You're just waking up. Give yourself a minute. You thirsty? Doc said if you were, to start with some ice chips 'till we see how they make your stomach feel."

He nodded, still very confused, and watched as Tony reached for the pink plastic pitcher on a cart near the head of his bed and poured some icy bits into a cup. He held the cup out to him, and he reached for it with a surprisingly heavy hand. It shook violently as he slowly lifted it off the bed, the effort of moving it greater than he anticipated. He grasped the cup, but instead of letting go, Tony helped him guide the cup to his lips and tilt it enough so that some of the ice chips inside fell into his open mouth. The coolness felt heavenly against his tongue and he was so focused on the relief the ice brought him that he failed to notice the machines surrounding him beep louder until Tony brought it to his attention.

"Here, man. You've got to straighten out your arm a bit. The way you've got it now is pinching your line and making that machine over there very grouchy."

Taking the cup back into his own hands and then placing it back onto the cart, Tony then proceeded to pick Tim's arm up gently and place it outstretched and back by his side. The machines instantly quieted now that the intravenous tubing connected to the back of his hand was no longer pinched.

"Used to drive me crazy when I was stuck in here a last year. All I wanted to do was sleep, but couldn't even get comfy without that stupid thing making noise," Tony offered in explanation.

Throat now not so achy due to the help of the ice chips, he could speak a little easier, though his voice was still weak. "What…happened…Tony?"

The team leader looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I sent you out to Petty Officer Rollins' friend's house to see if we could get any more information. He didn't seem like he was going to crack anytime soon just sitting there in interrogation, so I thought that Jones kid might be able to give us a break."

His eyes widened as images began to flood his memory. "He wasn't…too happy…to see…me," he managed. "Barely told…him…who I was…and then…he shot me."

Tony visibly winced. "Yeah, then he taped you up and locked you in the trunk of the agency sedan. When you didn't check in or answer your phone, we came looking for you. You were lucky kid, he didn't move the car. If he did…" Tony paused, voice heavy.

"How bad?" he asked, although he already had an idea to what the answer would be.

Tony answered, still refusing to look at him. "Abdominal trauma and severe blood loss. You'd almost bled out by the time we found you."

It was silent for a moment as the enormity of having almost died hit him. "Did…did…you get…him?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah. Bastard can't hurt anyone ever again." Tony answered. "Ziva took care of it."

"Rollins?"

"Going away for a really long time," was the response.

They lapsed into silence, both minds swirling with unfulfilled possibilities. "Thank you," he finally managed in a near whisper.

It was loud enough for Tony to hear, and when he did, his head whipped around so that they could now see each other's faces. His expression was stormy. "Don't you say that, Tim. Don't you dare say that, especially to me."

He was thoroughly confused. "Wha…why?"

"I got you into this mess. I don't deserve your thanks."

"What are..you talking…about?"

"I sent you out there alone. No back-up. Field agent guide one-o-one: never go anywhere without back-up. I screwed up, Tim. So don't you dare thank me for anything."

His face softened in understanding. "Not your fault…Tony."

Tony avoided his gaze once again. "Yeah, yeah it is."

"Stuff happens…should have been…more careful. Knew Rollins…was dangerous. Should have…figured friend…would be…too."

"Well, I should have known."

"You're not…a god, Tony," he smiled ruefully, albeit faintly. "No matter…how…many times…women…tell you…that you…are."

The joke was lost on his friend. "I'm not Gibbs, either," Tony said quietly.

The admission surprised him. "No, no…you're not. Gibbs…left us…when…we needed…him. You didn't. You were…there…when I…needed you."

"If Gibbs was here, you wouldn't have gotten hurt in the first place!" Tony yelled, voice razor-sharp.

"Not true…and…you know it. Not…your…fault…Tony." His eyes began to drift shut, as the exhaustion reclaimed him.

Tony sighed heavily, his voice losing its bite. "Don't go to sleep yet, Tim. The nurse brought up some bouillon a while ago and wanted to see if you were up to having some. You haven't had anything to eat for a while. Think you can handle some broth? It's chicken."

He cracked his eyes open and saw Tony pull the cart closer toward the bed and swivel the countertop around until it formed a tray over his bed. On the portable tray was a plastic bowl with a cover over it, a matching pink color, same as the pitcher. Tony lifted the lid on the bowl, and a tiny wisp of steam was released.

"Well, at least you won't burn your tongue, Tim. Hospital food is never hot by the time it gets to you," Tony said while adjusting the hospital bed slowly so that his senior field agent was sitting up slightly. There was a tugging along his stomach, but thankfully no pain.

Tony was waving a spoon in his face. "Enjoy, kid. This will probably be the last edible thing you have here."

He grinned tiredly and reached for the spoon in Tony's hand. It felt as if it were made of cast iron, not cheap metal, and his hand shook under the strain of holding it up. He managed to bring it to the bowl and dip it inside, but his hand was trembling so badly that none of the liquid stayed in the utensil. Sighing dejectedly, he dropped the spoon into the bowl with a flourish and sagged against his pillows.

Tony cleared his voice, embarrassed. "Um, do you, ah, need some help? 'Cause I could go find a nurse or something that could help you out here."

He considered it for a moment, plan formulating in his tired, exhausted head. "You do it."

Tony sputtered. "What?"

"You do it," he repeated, eyes closing. "You're here. You want…me…to eat. You do it…so I can go…back to sleep."

He did not need to see Tony's face to know that his new boss was smiling softly.

He split an eye open to look at Tony. "But if you…make…airplane or train…noises, you will…regret it."

Tony was grinning fully now. "Got it man, no airplanes or trains."

"And this…never…gets mentioned…ever again." He waited until Tony was looking him in the eye so that the team leader could see that he meant more than being spoon-fed. Way more.

The message was received. "Yeah, man. Lips are sealed."

"Good." He closed his eyes and rested back against his pillows, knowing that while neither would ever mention the ordeal and Tony's misplaced guilt again, it would never be forgotten.

"Alright, Timmy. Here comes the racecar. Voom, voom! Open wide!"

_The End_

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**a/n: Thank you to all who have read my story! I sincerely hope you liked it! **

**A big thanks to all who left reviews. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading them!**

**To those who wondered what happened to Gibbs…this story is set between Seasons 3 and 4. *SPOILER* At the end of Season 3, Gibbs abruptly retires and goes to Mexico and leaves Tony in charge of the team.**


End file.
